XII Salzburger Festspiel

Katherina stared out of the train window at the winter landscape just before the Austrian border. The air was frigid, but no snow had fallen and the hills, meadows, and woodlands of Bavaria were various shades of gray.

It was good to get away from Berlin. Too much was unresolved, confused, churning in her head. Too much hinted of wrongdoing, shame, absurdity. What did a stillborn infant have to do with a suicide thirty years later? Why ask forgiveness from a child who never lived? She no longer knew her own family, what she came from or who she was.

Well, Sabine had known her all right. Had known something very important, for about fifteen minutes, and then never called again. The journal and Sabine’s conquest had been like blows from two directions. Katherina felt suspended, thrown from the safe space she had inhabited her whole life, and not yet landed in any new place she understood.

The journal had become an obsession, like a mystery she could not put down. She had read the early entries with morbid fascination but the stream of revelations had overpowered her; she needed time to absorb them lest they drown her.

She had resolved to stop reading at least for a few days, to clear her head and focus on the Salzburg engagement. Meanwhile, she carried the journal with her in her music bag like a talisman charged with the presence of her father, even while she no longer knew who he was.

More urgent matters demanded attention now. For the last week she had studied the Rosenkavalier score day and night until she knew every note and syllable of her part. Now she needed to integrate the stream of music in her head into a stage performance with other singers.

More importantly, she needed to hear the other voices, to rehearse the ensembles: the several duets and the spectacular final trio. She hoped the sheer force of will was enough to accomplish in seven days what the rest of the cast had been doing for a month. Yet, the pressure was in its own way a blessing; it took her mind off her personal problems.

She pulled her charcoal gray cape up higher on her shoulders. An expensive cloak, an extravagance, really, that she had allowed herself as a form of solace. With its hood and sweeping width, it was a bit theatrical, but blissfully warm, and there was no harm in an opera singer dressing like…an opera singer.

The train crossed the Salzach River and she pressed her head against the windowpane watching the morning sun illuminate the medieval Festung Hohensalzburg, the prince archbishop’s fortress on the hill that was the icon for Salzburg on every guidebook in the world. Including the one in her hand. In the remaining minutes before arrival, she glanced through the first page.

“The Old City of Salzburg on the banks of the Salzach River can be traversed by foot in its entirety in a single afternoon. It has 16 churches (11 on the left bank and 5 on the right) and a plethora of concert halls, ecclesiastical residences, princely palaces, cloisters, and fountains and gates and monuments as would dazzle the most jaded eye. It is a Catholic city, which flaunts an extravagantly gilded Baroque Christianity. Its rooftops are patina’d domes, its gardens thoroughfares of relief and statuary, and its angels and Madonnas and Infants, its halos and coronas and explosions of flora are so laden with gold that even in the murkiest sanctuary and crypt, it shimmers. It is a supremely religious city, but its religion is art. ”

Katherina smiled at the description, wondering why there was no mention of opera. Ah, there it was, on the next page.

“And even more than the eye, Salzburg beguiles the ear, for no city in Europe is more closely identified with classical vocal music than this one. Mozart was born here in 1756 and Herbert von Karajan in 1908. For over two hundred years, gorgeous music has been performed in its glittering palaces and churches, music that purported to glorify prince or deity, but was always in fact its own glory. Mozart festivals began in 1877 and the first summer festival was given in 1922, the year that the Kleines Festspielhaus was built. In 1960 the Grosses Festspielhaus was added, its anterooms fashioned out of the massive stables of the prince-archbishop, and its stage and backstage area blasted out of the stone of the Monchsberg behind it. ”

A theater cut into the rocky slope. Music versus the mountain, and music won. She liked the idea.

Confirming that she had her shoulder bag, scarf, hat, and both gloves, Katherina struggled out of the taxi on the Linzergasse and blinked in the bright winter sunlight. Yes, this was clearly the historical part of the city, Mozart’s Salzburg. Hefting her suitcase, she trudged up the tiny winding Steingasse to the Pension Stein. She’d originally planned to stay at the Hilton Hotel, but when the Festspiel administration told her about the quiet pension on the Kapuzinerberg overlooking the town, she moved her reservation to the Stein. The fact that Anastasia Ivanova was also staying there might have played a role. Still, she had not considered how difficult it would be to drag her luggage up the endless stone steps to the entryway.

“Gnä dige Frau. ” A plump, ruddy-cheeked woman opened the oaken door all the way and stepped back. “Ich bin Frau Semmel, ” she said, and offered her hand. She had the slightly flat face and the singsong lilt of the Austrian peasant. Katherina took the hand and was drawn into an entryway. The adjacent breakfast room was Alpine-cute, with whitewashed plaster walls above pine wainscoting. To their immediate left was a steep wooden stairway that led to the upper floor. As they climbed the stairs, Katherina detected the unmistakable smell of soap and wood polish.

Having reserved late, Katherina had gotten the last room available, and it was small. The few furnishings and the double bed appeared to be antique, as did the enormous wooden crucifix that hung over the carved headboard. Almost a meter in height, it held a figure whose agony was carved and painted with morbid precision. Tiny trickles of blood ran down the face and neck of the Savior, and larger streams bulged like knotted velvet cords from the side and hand wounds. The bone of one knee was exposed through an ulcerous black-rimmed wound.

She had scarcely unpacked when the phone rang, the rehearsal secretary calling, slightly out of breath and obviously relieved to have reached her. A sudden change in rehearsal plans. Could Katherina begin this afternoon instead of tomorrow?

Yes, of course she could. Katherina snatched up her cape and scarf, and reversed the path she had made scarcely half an hour before. At the end of the Steingasse, she crossed the large stone bridge and continued past shops with wrought-iron signs hanging over their doors: Amadeus Schokolade, Figaro Café. In a few minutes she was at a square where a stone balustrade marked off a large pool of water. The watering pool for the Prince Archbishop’s horses. At the rear of the pool, a wall held seven equestrian panels. Ramps led into the pool from two sides, and in its center a bronze stallion reared up over a squire who still held him by the reins. An apt image of her current state of mind, Katherina thought, one part of herself trying to gain control of the other.

Just across the street toward her left was the concert-hall complex of the Festspielhaus. A long and unimpressive concrete box of a building, it could have been a municipal structure in a middle-sized German town. Yet its three theaters were hallowed halls for aspiring opera singers, and to sing in any of them meant you had made it. She hurried through the wide foyer into the main hall.

The first act was halfway through when Katherina crept into the auditorium. Baron Ochs was handing over the rose casket with just the right balance of lasciviousness and charm. Singing the bass role, Hans Stintzing executed a marvelous rococo bow, as elaborate as a dance step. He drew a lace handkerchief from his cuff, waved it in a half circle, then blew his nose into it as he lumbered from the Marschallin’s boudoir.

Then the Marschallin began her long monologue and Katherina had time to study the stately soprano who performed her. Sybil Ruiz, a black Puerto Rican–American, had a creamy soft-grained voice that was perfect for the role. Katherina became caught up in the musings of a woman fearing age and the passing of time. Katherina was always amused by the way the soliloquy ended, with the campy observation, “Ah, but style makes all the difference. ”

Suddenly the door behind the Marschallin flew open and a slender, gorgeous boy in riding clothes strode across the stage. High suede boots went up to his knees and covered the bottom of his gray-green breeches. Over a soft white shirt he wore a brocade vest that ended at mid-thigh, and over that a green riding coat. Wide cuffs were trimmed in black velvet slashes, each vertical slash ending with a brass button. Down his chest, on both front panels of the coat, rows of gold braid and stamped brass buttons ran from collar to hem. The pommel of a dress saber jutted from an opening at the hip of the coat, and whenever he turned, it swung after him.

Anastasia Ivanova was stunning in the trouser role, and Katherina was hypnotized. It was the same sensuous face she had seen on the record jacket of Berlioz’ Faust. How fascinating now, to see her move and gesture, confirming the authoritative presence Katherina had discerned on the Faust photo. But now she had a male swagger. The Slavic features were still striking, though the nose in profile was longer than expected. Although she had a rehearsal costume, she wore neither of the two wigs that would be required in the performance, and her blond hair hung loosely clipped behind her neck.

Androgynous though the role was, Anastasia did not blur the sexual identities so much as project both sexes at once. A strikingly attractive female face sang in a high, bright timbre, and it remained obvious that a woman’s body was under the breeches and coat. At the same time, every word and gesture bore masculine authority.

The idea of being on stage with this woman, singing amorous duets, suddenly excited her.

“I’m sure you’re beat from travel and then four hours of rehearsal. ” Anastasia opened the door to her room at the Pension Stein. “But stop in just for a moment and see the view from my balcony. ”

Katherina followed her inside. “It’s a fantastic room. Not only do you have a crucifix that’s much less gory than mine, but a balcony opening to the whole city! ”

“Yes, come outside and have a look, but be careful of the step down. ” Anastasia reached in front of her and opened the glass door. “It’s almost too pretty to be real, isn’t it? ”

They stood side by side and looked out over the cold evening landscape. The Salzach River crawled below them, slightly silver under the blue-gray sky. Lights had gone on in places among the low houses of the old city across the Salzach, concentrations of warmth and solace against the frigid oncoming night. Among the low houses, the churches stood like shepherds watching over a flock of sheep, their domes ornamented and patina’d. Behind these, stark and grim in the falling light, the ancient fortress crouched atop its hill.

“If it would only snow, ” Anastasia said. “Then Salzburg is sublime. It crouches in the mist like a phantom city. But that’s just my fantasy, I suppose. I adore snow. ”

Katherina hugged her cape around her. “I don’t care much for it myself. It makes my legs stiff. ”

“Let’s sit by the fire then and warm up. I’ll pour us a little port. ” Anastasia retreated into the room to ignite the gas jet in the tiny fireplace in the corner. As Katherina came in behind her, she was drawing up two stools.

“Snow for me is childhood innocence, ” she continued. “The quintessential image of Russia. ”

“I suppose that’s why it’s on all the postcards. What city did you live in? ”

Anastasia reached into a corner cabinet and withdrew a bottle of something deep red, along with two tiny glasses. “The Communists call it Leningrad, but my mother never stopped calling it St. Petersburg. For her the Revolution was just a passing phase. Insane, of course, because she married a communist. They must have really been in love. ” She handed over one of the glasses and filled both of them with the crimson liquid.

“And the snow part? ” Katherina sipped from her glass. The port was silky sweet and she held it deliciously on her tongue before swallowing.

“That’s from my mother, who lived in a fantasy of Old Russia. When it snowed, she lit our samovar and reminisced about her childhood under the Tsar. Her name was Olga Adrianovna Romanova Kalish, and she had some distant connection to the imperial family. ”

“You have Romanov blood? I’m impressed. I guess that explains your name. ”

Anastasia snorted, and the unexpected sound bursting from her elegant face was hugely comical. “You don’t know the half of it. My full name is Anastasia Olga Vasillievna Ivanova, but you have to appreciate what a joke it is. My mother gave herself those “ova” endings when in fact she was something like a second cousin to a second cousin on the female side. Anyone with real Romanov connections went into exile, and the fact that she stayed safely put in Russia tells you how thin her imperial blood actually was. In fact, her own brother, my uncle Georgi, was a hero in the Red Army during the war. ”

“I suppose it would be pretty foolish to claim royal privilege, wouldn’t it? ”

“Not only that, the whole idea of Romanov blood is meaningless. They were a rather dull family, whose only distinguishing trait was hemophilia, certainly not intelligence. The Romanov monarchy, for all its history, was a kind of splendid opera. All theater, with no inkling of the rumblings among their own people. Of course the most operatic of all was the end of the dynasty, with the Tsarevitch and Rasputin and the slaughter of everyone at Ekaterinburg. ”

“Fabulous costumes, though, ” Katherina quipped. “A shame the communists are so drab. ”

Anastasia laughed softly. “My thoughts exactly. Why can’t they have their collective farms and tractor factories and still leave us a few nice outfits? I suppose that’s why I love our little operas. We get to dress up and play miniature versions of the big operas of empire and no harm is done. ”

“Oh, I agree. ” Katherina took another sip of the sweet wine. Was it the port or the closeness to Anastasia that was making her giddy? “But we were talking about snow, weren’t we? ”

“Yes, well, the fantasy my mother built around herself and around me, little Anastasia, was right out of Russian folklore. As she got older, she suffered from dementia, so all the while we were in communist Leningrad, she was living in that postcard illusion. Toward the end, she claimed to have been at a ball at the Winter Palace. She could even describe mirrored halls, the servants, the women in long gowns and the men in smart military uniforms. There was always snow in her story, and people arriving at the palace in horse-drawn sledges. For years I had a doll called Snow Maiden, a character in Russian folklore. I suppose if anything, Snow Maiden was the symbol for our perfect world, the world of our dreams. ”

For a moment, Katherina felt a stab of envy. Having a delusional mother was vastly better than having none at all. Then she remembered the hardships of Soviet life. “I have trouble imagining what it would be like to become an opera singer in Communist Russia. It must have been difficult. ”

“It wasn’t, really. The education is free. If you have musical talent, the state will support you and there’s always work. After I finished Rimsky-Korsakov Conservatory, the Leningrad Symphony engaged me right away. I sang the mezzo solo in Prokofieff’s Alexander Nevsky. A couple of years later I was invited to sing with the Leningrad Opera. ”

“Then the Bolshoi discovered you? ”

Anastasia laughed again, her voice as creamy as the port wine. “The Bolshoi doesn’t ‘discover’ anyone. I had to audition with a dozen other singers hungry to leave the provinces. But they signed me on. In the second season I sang Joan of Arc in the Maid of Orleans. The Russians adore their Tchaikovsky. ”

“When did you start singing Rosenkavalier? ”

“Not until Paris. I love Octavian, but it’s a very demanding role. Not only are you on stage all the time, but the running around and the costume changes are a strain. I’m always afraid I’ll forget a sword or a glove. ” She bent toward the fire to warm her hands. “And once I sang with a Sophie who dropped the rose. ”

“In performance? How awful. Well, I think I can promise not to do that, but I’m still not certain quite how to play her. I find her a bit silly. ”

“You don’t have to play her silly. I’d definitely welcome a Sophie with dignity. My Octavian is also a notch more introspective than usual. I think you’ll like him. ”

“I’m sure I will. ” Katherina toyed with the empty port glass. Like Octavian? She was already smitten with him. “Do you think we might bring something new to their relationship? ”

“A little more passion, you mean? That will depend on the kind of Sophie you are. ” Anastasia squinted with sudden seriousness. “I will be leaving a great woman for you, so you have to be very exciting. ”

Katherina stared back at intelligent gray eyes and wondered how much they teased. “Well, then, I guess I have to work on being a Sophie you can’t resist. ”

“No, no, no. You keep missing the cue. ” Exasperated, Radu Gavril signaled the pianist to stop. Sixty years old but with the energy of a man possessed, he marched toward Katherina in the center of the rehearsal room. Hans Stintzing sat next to her, as perplexed as she was by Radu’s action.

“I’m having trouble getting off Hans’ lap fast enough to start my line, ” Katherina said. “It’ll be even harder in costume. ”

Radu gave a little puff of impatience. “Try it a beat earlier, then. And sing the line with more staccato. I’ll show you. ” He called to the pianist. “Heinrich, take it from the first measure. ”

The stage director sat down on the knee of the bass, who sang his line unfazed by the man on his lap. At the specified moment, Radu leapt up and sang Sophie’s line in a lively falsetto, mimicking girlish annoyance. An instant later he was himself again, somber, authoritative. “Do you see what I mean? ”

Katherina nodded. “Yes, I think so. Sharper, with a notch more outrage. ”

“Yes, exactly. ” He signaled the pianist. “Start again from one. ”

Katherina was acutely aware that the piano rehearsal was for her benefit, as latecomer, since the rest of the cast had already begun rehearsals with her predecessor. Intensely focused therefore, she worked her way through the second act, getting to know the rhythms of each of the other singers, interacting physically, dramatically, and vocally. It was a joy to work with singers at the level of skill and professionality of the other cast members.

Hans Stintzing exuded a carefully calibrated lasciviousness for his Baron Ochs without losing the air of a nobleman. Anastasia maintained a subtle presence at the edge of the scene without drawing attention away from the Baron and Sophie.

Back and forth she went with Hans’ Baron Ochs—he singing lewdness in short waltz motifs and she responding with dissonant rejection. Then it was Katherina’s time to linger at the periphery while the two “men” had their duel.

To the general amusement, Anastasia proved far more skilled with the foil than the burly bass. Finally, exasperated, Radu took the Baron’s foil.

“The orchestra gives you plenty of time for this, Hans, so you don’t have to get too excited. There are only a few steps before Octavian pokes you. ” He assumed position, toe to toe with Anastasia. “Start on your cue, ” he said to Anastasia, and the brief duel began.

After assuming the en garde position for a fraction of a second, Anastasia feinted and then advanced in a series of lunges. Radu parried each one, talking all the while. “You see, Hans. You just have to match her steps backward, and…parry…parry, then, riposte. ”

“Now, you try it. ” He handed the foil to Hans.

The two singers practiced the choreography until the stage director was satisfied. At the right moment, Octavian flicked the foible of her blade across his upper sword arm and Hans’ comic genius took over. Clapping his meaty hand over his wounded arm, he stood gawking in astonishment. His lips quivered hilariously for a moment; then he sang out “Mur-der! Mur-der! ” and swooned into the arms of his servant. “A doctor. Bandages! Police! ” he sang. “I’m hot-blooded. I’ll bleed to death in a minute. Stop him! Poliiiice! ”

It took another hour to block the remainder of the second act: servants conspiring, Sophie protesting, father ranting. But finally, the outraged Baron was placated by a “fine old Tokay” and was carried off, murmuring naughty innuendo in the melody of a waltz.

The air outside the festival hall was biting cold and Katherina spoke through the layers of scarf that covered her mouth and throat.

“Radu Gavril is amazing, isn’t he? He’s got so much energy. He seems to be running on better fuel than the rest of us. ”

Equally muffled, Anastasia pressed close to Katherina to be heard, taking hold of her arm. “A good thing, too. Hans needed work on his fencing. I’ve been worried all week that he might put a hole in me. ” She laughed.

Katherina felt like a schoolgirl, walking arm in arm with Anastasia, and though thick layers of wool separated them, the pressure of Anastasia’s shoulder seemed to add warmth. “You want to stop for some coffee? ” she said suddenly. “The Café Tomaselli is just around the corner in the Alter Markt. ”

Anastasia shook her head. “It’s apt to be full of tourists. Let’s make it supper and go to the Triangel. The headwaiter is a sweetheart. He’ll give us a quiet table if the place is not too full. ”

The Triangel was full, but the headwaiter lived up to his reputation. A round ruddy face with wide nose and gray handlebar mustache radiated grandfatherly charm. Katherina thought of a somewhat aristocratic St. Nicolaus. He kept a pristine dishtowel folded over his arm as if part of a waiter’s costume. His step was buoyant, and his eyes shone with pleasure when he recognized Anastasia.

“Ah, Madame Ivanova, what a pleasure to see you. And you brought another lovely lady. ”

“Looks busy tonight, Willi. I don’t suppose you have a quiet table anyplace. ”

“Tja. It will be difficult I’m afraid. Friday evening, you know. But let me see what I can do. ”

Katherina scanned the café. The unpretentious room had only basic wooden tables and a few sets of goat antlers on the walls. The clientele was obviously from the Festspielhaus. Katherina recognized several of the administrative staff. Detlev from the wig department caught her eye and waved, and in the far corner, with her back turned, Sybil was having dinner with Hans.

Willi the waiter had returned. “Glü ck g’habt, ” he said. “Gerda was folding napkins at the table in the back and I convinced her to move. If you don’t mind being next to the kitchen. ”

They both shook their heads and he led them down the narrow space that branched off from the main restaurant. As the level of noise dropped off, the kitchen smells increased. A pleasant mixture of warm potatoes, sausage, and coffee.

Unwrapping meters of woolen neck scarves, Anastasia hung her coat on a wall hook and sat down. “I recommend the schnitzel. Best in Salzburg. ”

Katherina exhaled luxuriously in the warm air. “Sounds wonderful. Order for us both. ” She was still exuberant from the rehearsal. “Seeing you only as Marguerite, I wouldn’t have guessed you were so good in a trouser role. And you fence like an expert! ”

Anastasia laughed. “I only know those three steps, but that’s all you need for Octavian. It’s not much of a duel, after all. If I ever have to sing a pirate or musketeer, I’m cooked. ”

“Are there operas with pirates or musketeers? Outside of Gilbert and Sullivan, I mean. ”

“I can’t think of one, but in any case, I’ll stick with Octavian and Cherubino. In fact, strike that. I’d prefer Mozart’s Cherubino any time. So much easier to sing. ”

“He’s fun to watch too. I saw my first Nozze di Figaro when I was ten, in German, of course. A birthday present from my parents. I was already studying voice. ”

“Really? I’ve always wondered what children think of him. Cherubino, I mean. ”

“I was bored at first. You know, the opera starts with Figaro measuring a room for a bed, and I couldn’t get interested in that. But then Cherubino, this fantastic boy-girl creature in blue satin knee pants, burst into the room. It was like I myself was suddenly on stage. ”

The schnitzel arrived and Katherina bit into something exquisitely spiced. She chewed for a moment, reminiscing. “I didn’t know what a trouser role was, and it was confusing to see a woman singing as a boy. It also was exciting, a kind of lawlessness. ”

Anastasia nodded, raising her fork for emphasis. “That scene is real comic theater. Then it gets even funnier, when he starts switching back and forth between the sexes. He’s a boy, then a soldier, then a woman singing a boy disguised as a peasant girl. ”

“Yes, in every scene, Cherubino was all I looked at. He always came and went through the window, as if he lived in the air outside, not on earth. Frankly, I was smitten. You can imagine how thrilled I was when my mother took me backstage to meet the singer. ”

“That didn’t destroy the illusion? ”

“Not at all. Backstage was a magical place. Men carrying flowers knocked on doors with nameplates. When the doors opened, divine light seemed to shine out from the rooms. ”

“Oh my, you were smitten. ”

“I was so excited, wondering how this otherworldly being would look up close. Then the door opened. It was a woman, of course, but she wore slacks and a blue shirt, almost the same color as her costume. Her hair was shorter than the wig she had worn, but some of Cherubino was still there in her face. She seemed to look through me. ”

“Who sang that Cherubino? ” Anastasia asked.

“Claudia Martin. ” I never saw her again after that performance. ”

“Oh yes, she was a good mezzo. Almost a contralto. She stopped singing early on and went to live in the country with her girlfriend. The Cherubino that stepped into her shoes was of course the American Frederica von Stade. ”

Katherina ignored the “girlfriend” remark. “Yes, I love von Stade, too. But the meeting with Claudia Martin changed my life. She asked me if I wanted to be an opera singer and at that moment, I knew with certainty I did. Strange, isn’t it? I was ten years old and I was ready to sell my soul. In fact, she warned me that I had to make sacrifices and asked me what I was willing to give up. I told her everything. And it was true. Something had happened to me that night and I was willing to abandon everything I knew and run away to ‘join the opera. ’”

“Not the circus? ” Anastasia mocked gently.

“Not even close. Anyhow, that was it. Just then my mother showed up to fetch me and we went home. I’m sure I babbled on and on about Cherubino, but my mother seemed to understand. ”

“The opera bug was from her side? ”

“From both sides, actually. My father loved opera and my mother was a singer. Of popular songs, like Hildegard Knef or Edith Piaf. She died when I was young and after that, there was just my father. But opera was always in the air, as long as I can remember. ”

“You lost your mother. In my case, it was my father. He was killed at Kursk. ”

“So many died in the war and in the hard years right after. There must have been millions of children on both sides raised by one parent, or none. ”

“That’s true, though I did have a second father for a while. My uncle Georgi, my mother’s brother. We heard that he had been lost at Stalingrad, but he showed up five years later at our house. He had two artificial legs, but he was alive. ”

Katherina shook her head. “The war, the purges. It all seems such an appalling waste. We had Hitler and you had Stalin. A hundred million dead. How many people did the Soviets lose? Twenty million? So much sacrifice and the Kremlin still is imprisoning its own people. It’s hard not be cynical. ”

“That’s so true. No sign of a god, but it’s very easy to believe in the devil, isn’t it? ” Anastasia poured more coffee into both their cups. As if they were a couple, Katherina thought.

“Well, there’s plenty of evil to go around, that’s for certain, but I think we make a mistake to see it only as something alien and absolute. We are sometimes its victims, but I think we carry it around inside ourselves too, and it stays docile only as long as the going is good and we’re not threatened. ”

“Let’s not talk about good and evil. You are far too somber today, and there’s no reason for it. Here, this is what you need. ”

She held up a cube of sugar for a moment and then dropped it into Katherina’s coffee. Was it flirtation or just silliness, Katherina wondered as she lifted the cup to her lips. Whichever it was, the over sweetened coffee was, in fact, delicious.

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